


electric sun

by mediumbear



Series: Before I See Too Much [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Drink Spiking, HaiHimu, Implied NijiHimu, M/M, Not even a hateship just a Danger Time, sharing cigarettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26800699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediumbear/pseuds/mediumbear
Summary: Ash that gets in all your airways. That could bury you from the inside out, with enough force. Enough intention.“Huh, so choking really does it for ya? Or is this too much?” Shou's cackling, “You’ll let me know if I need to ease up, yeah, Tatsuya?”“Shut up,” he manages to hack out the instant the pressure lessens from his windpipe.
Relationships: Haizaki Shougo/Himuro Tatsuya
Series: Before I See Too Much [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1050521
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	electric sun

**Author's Note:**

> Part of Before I See Too Much series - Himuro forgot everything to do with the Winter Cup, so remembers Nijimura, but forgot Haizaki. Himuro moved from Akita -> LA -> Akita -> Tokyo.
> 
> also i blame coco for this terror ship, haihimu rights <3

“Bullshit,” the man next to him is grumbling -- whether to himself or simply out loud at the state of things -- as he leans back against the wall, the rubber of his sneaker sole hitting the brick with a loud thunk. 

Although Tatsuya doesn’t necessarily pay attention to him since he knows better than to get involved with the loudest ones in the club, he can’t help but glance him up and down out of the corner of his eye. The man’s entire air appears to command attention. If he didn’t want it to, he could simply stop making movements that draw the eye -- a roll of his neck to crack it, shrugging a shoulder back against the brick, digging in his pocket rather roughly to find the lighter like he’s trying to scare it into submission. Straight black hair tied back in a low ponytail, an undercut that starts just above his ear and climbs back to the base of his skull. Tatsuya only realises he’s looking when the guy tuts and looks directly at him.

“Hey, gimme a spare one.” His voice is actually fairly calm despite his movements being anything but. He’s gesturing to the cigarette-packet in Tatsuya’s palm where he’s deliberating over it.

“Sure, in exchange for a light.”

The guy shrugs and rolls his eyes as he smirks, a plain and simple may as well. Tatsuya flicks one cigarette out of the packet for the stranger to take. Just as he’s pinching it between index finger and thumb he pauses, and even through the buoyancy of alcohol and the high of the club, Tatsuya can feel himself stared at.

“Hey, aren’t you that guy who…” he frowns.

Tatsuya raises his eyebrows, the faintest smile playing on his lips, unable and unwilling to confirm or deny anything until he gets that light. But the stranger seems to understand and doesn’t say anything, lighting his own cigarette and giving a few experimental puffs before he holds it out.

Tatsuya stands waiting, holding the cigarette between his lips until the guy gets it and laughs, lighting it for him, Tatsuya’s hand creeping around his to shelter from the humidity of the side-alley. 

“Fucking sucks in there,” the stranger comments, his back flat against the wall again as he stares off down the alley to where a couple of skimpily-dressed girls have emerged from the club; one of them shoots him a glare over his shoulder to whom he mouths _bitch_ before he takes another draw on the cigarette. “Shitty crowd. Never usually like this.”

“Your usual?” Tatsuya asks as his polite small-talk kicks in on instinct.

“More or less. You?”

He shakes his head.

“Figured, since I ain’t seen you here before,”

He’s surprisingly chatty, Tatsuya thinks. The single sip of his third drink he’d had was spiked. It’s taking a while for his world to stop spinning. He won’t be coming back here again. They smoke in silence for a while.

“Never got your name.” the stranger says at last, grinding the butt of his cigarette into the ground with that worn-away rubber heel. Tatsuya realises he, too, is now leaning back against the wall, as if following cues on how to step outside for a smoke in Tokyo. Far more people seem to be doing it here than in Akita. Or-- or maybe it’s just because he’s no longer a teenager and now he’s noticing it.

“Tatsuya,” he replies, holding out the packet with yet another cigarette poking out of it.

“Shougo,” the stranger offers as he takes it out of the packet, drawing it away ever so slowly. The paper practically whispers to Tatsuya despite the hum and throb of the club’s booming music through the back door.

“Shou,” Tatsuya repeats, a better version of it that’s a thousand times easier to pronounce when his brain chemistry is struggling to dilute whatever he’s accidentally put in himself. Next to him Shou lets out a cackle.

“Hey, that’s good. I’ll take that.”

Tatsuya gives him the barest, weakest smile because despite the pleasantries he really isn’t feeling fluffy with friendship right now. The drinks were expensive. This wasn’t-- a _bad_ idea, how else was he to know this place would ruin him right off the bat-- but he resents being out here a little. He’ll stay until he feels a little clearer. Not that it’s easy to do in the backstreets of Tokyo with their cloying smells and the hot-air vents popping up all the way down the alleyway. It’s either here or accidentally falling onto the train-tracks on the way home. Gotta love the big city, he thinks.

“Let’s get out of here,” Shou says suddenly, peeling away from the wall and staring Tatsuya in the eye, hands slung low in his pockets. “Re-entry’s not worth it.”

"I'll take your word for it," Tatsuya replies, toting the cigarette between his lips until it's millimetres from scorching him.

\--

Shou's place has a bed and Tatsuya doesn't even need that much, although it helps not to be fuzzy-headed from altitude when he stands. During the last few stops on the train he'd had his hand on Tatsuya's thigh, slowly climbing with a shamelessness that he guesses got him kicked out of the club in the first place. Like a game of chicken Tatsuya had looked at him and held his gaze stonily, but that didn't deter him. He just dug his thumb into his hip.

Now, he's not so shy about how things look, pushing Tatsuya down onto the mattress as he palms him through his jeans with corner-cutting roughness that’s purposefully lazy enough to communicate _hurry up and take your clothes off_ in no uncertain terms. Still, it’s simply so much of a lack of finesse that Tatsuya scoffs. Even in his state he’s not about to roll over and let this happen.

“At least pretend.” 

Shou raises an eyebrow at him from where he’s climbing over his thighs, hands everywhere under his shirt and over his jeans, strands of his ink-black hair falling forward from that rough hairtie like some kind of modern incubus.

“Damn, that desperate?”

“Apparently.” Beneath him, for a moment, Tatsuya allows his eyes to attempt to refocus on the dingy-beige ceiling of this little one-room apartment and when they don’t succeed against the spinning of his head, still, he closes them, unguarded. Uncharacteristic? Maybe. But Shou doesn’t know anything about what he isn’t and isn’t like. Hasn’t seen him functional. Doesn’t hold him to a single standard or he wouldn’t have brought home this half-drugged not-from-this-country country-boy.

This, in a way, is a kind of freedom.

Yet he hears Shou say above him, “You look like you’re givin’ up,” -- like a passing comment at a baseball game. Then feels a tug on his waistband, fingers in the belt-loops, an impatient pop of his fly-button. Clearly whatever Tatsuya looks like doesn’t stop him from getting what he wants.

“Is that a problem?” he murmurs, looking at him again beneath his eyelashes. Shou watches him, those thin eyebrows settled as he unzips, and his expression reminds him of Shuu, somehow. Nostalgic.

“Figured you’d have a little fight left.”

“Going to have to work harder then, aren’t you?”

Again, that tut behind Shou’s teeth. Is it a warning? A pause to change direction drastically? A shark making a breakneck turn. For once, for once Tatsuya wonders if he can tune out of reading people. This overwork isn’t going to pay off with anything better than a mediocre drunk fuck on day three of the next part of his youthful life in Tokyo. No point in bracing himself, then, for the inevitable, which he predicts would be some crass retort spat back in his face or just a shortcut straight to that awful sex he’s holding out for; but Shou does neither, holding his gaze.

It’s overthinking. All of this is concocted within his own head. It’s a sign that the drug is leaving his bloodstream, at last, and not a moment too soon, because if he was any more sluggish he’d miss Shou’s hand suddenly lunging for his throat. In a flash he grips at his wrist and pushes him away, just enough imbalance in the act to leave his knee against his thigh, pushing, leaning, bearing Shou’s weight against his hips. Of course. Of course he did.

“I’m not into that,” Tatsuya says coolly, and it’s somewhat-- interesting to find that Shou matches his strength pretty well, if only for a few seconds before they each leave it at the same moment and let go, only for him to scuffle at him again, this time catching Tatsuya’s shirt by the neckline. 

“Whoa, whoa, pretty defensive there,” he’s smirking. “You wanted me to work harder, didn’t ya?”

“Didn’t ask to be choked,” Tatsuya practically sighs, the way the breath leaves him when he struggles against Shou’s firm grip until really, unfortunately, his knee is basically part of the pivot that lets him sit up and he doesn’t have much choice but to grind against him, and from Shou’s face, that was the intention. He grabs Tatsuya’s hip with his free hand, dragging him close. 

“Don’t lie. You’re fucking _begging_ for it.” His voice is a sneer, dripping with whiskey and confidence, and God, if that doesn’t hit Tatsuya where it hurts. A siren song if he ever heard one. He stays right where he is, tilting his head back. And why? He can’t stand taking these kinds of chances without a hefty payout.

Whatever this guy sees in him-- he’s seen it with those keen eyes, clearly enough that it’s disarmed him entirely. 

He hates himself when he tilts his chin back and locks eyes with him, to flick his hair aside a hair’s breadth, enough to see him just a little more clearly and to murmur, “Go on, then.”


End file.
